The Terrible Birthday of Rod Hull

It was Rod Hull’s birthday, and he was very much looking forward to his birthday party. All the puppets and puppeteers would be there – Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog, Keith Harris and Orville, Ray Alan and Lord Charles, Roger De Courcey and that pervert bear of his. Rod could hardly wait!

“I can hardly wait!” Rod Hull told his malevolent puppet sidekick, Emu. Emu’s head began to quiver and his mouth curled up. “Oh fucking shit!” Rod shouted, but it was too late. Emu launched a frenzied attack on his master that left Rod with severe facial injuries and blind in one eye.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to keep you in overnight,” the doctor told Rod in A&E.

“Well this stinks,” Rod replied. “I was supposed to be having a birthday party tonight.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” the doctor told him. “But it’s not all bad news. Manchester United are playing Inter Milan in the Champions League tonight, so you can watch that instead.”

“Hooray!” hoorayed Rod. Emu, meanwhile, sat next to him in an uncomfortable plastic chair simmering with rage.

Later that night, Rod was settling down to watch the match, but there was a problem – the reception was absolutely terrible. “I wonder if there’s a problem with the TV aerial, Emu?” Rod said. Emu snarled. “I’ll just pop up to the hospital roof to take a look.”

That turned out to be a bad idea because, as Rod was fifteen storeys up adjusting the television aerial on the hospital roof, Emu – who is a paranoid schizophrenic, by the way – got it into his head that Rod was Russell Harty and attacked him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” said Rod, as he staggered backwards clutching some brand new facial injuries. “NYAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” he also said, as he toppled off the roof and fell to his death.

Satisfied, Emu went back downstairs and settled down to watch the match. As he was just about to fall off the roof, Rod had frantically grabbed the TV aerial and that had sorted out the reception problem.

“This is great!” Emu fumed. “I’m going to watch this football match and then I’m going to kill every man, woman and child in this fucking hospital.”

THE END

Rod Hull and Emu’s West Yorkshire Bird Shit Competition of Death

It was the annual Bird Shit Festival in Hebden Bridge and Rod Hull and Emu knew they were in with a shout of bagging first prize in the ‘Biggest Streak of Bird Shit’ competition in the town hall.

Emu had certainly done his homework. He’s been living from off of nothing but egg and onion sandwiches washed down with pickled gherkin juice and milk stout for a fortnight, and the shit he’d splattered across the parquet floor of the hall was very impressive in a horrible sort of way.

“We’re winning this, Emu,” said Rod, confidently. “The only bird wot comes close is Orville, and that streak of shit he’s done is bollocks compared to yours.”

Emu stared at Rod with his malevolent eyes and then his beak curled up and he launched a ferocious and completely unprovoked attack on Rod’s screaming face.

Later that day it was time for the judging of the bird shit competition. Rod was there with his head swathed in bloody bandages. Emu didn’t care about this because he was a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Lovely big streak of bird shit, Keith,” the head judge, Mr. Terrence Chocolate-Orange, told Keith Harris.

“Why thank you,” replied Keith Harris. “What do you think about that, Orville? The judge says your bird shit’s lovely.”

“I wish I could fly, Keith,” Orville opined. A single tear sprung from his big plastic eye and trickled down his plastic cheek.

“Now,” said Terrence Chocolate-Orange, “onto the next big streak of bird shit. My word! That’s enormous!”

“Hold the bird shit judging competition!” came a voice from the back of the town hall. It was Karen Matthews (the caretaker, not the one who attempted to swindle fifty grand out of the Sun newspaper).

“What’s this?” demanded Terrence Chocolate-Orange.

“A freak gust of wind has knocked the aerial off of the roof,” Karen Matthews replied. Everyone in the town hall except Emu gasped. “Unless someone can fix it, we won’t be able to show the Champions League semi-final between Manchester United and Inter Milan tonight, which is the last event and undisputed highlight of the Hebden Bridge Bird Shit Festival.”

“This is a disaster,” said Terrence Chocolate-Orange. “People have come from as far away as Ilkley to watch that match. There’s nothing for it. Rod Hull must go up on the roof and fix the aerial.”

“Hang on … what?” asked Rod Hull. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard that right because the bandages were muffling his hearing.

But he had heard that right, and ten minutes later he was stumbling around blind on the town hall roof, arms outstretched, hands grasping for a TV aerial he couldn’t see because his whole head was swaddled in bandages.

“Is it … is it here? Is this it? Is … where the fuck … am I getting war- OH SHIT!”

Rod slipped on a big streak of bird shit, lost his footing and fell off the roof.

“Is he alright?” asked Terrence Chocolate-Orange.

Unfortunately, he never got to find out because at that moment Emu – enraged at not having his bird shit judged – pecked his eyeballs out and then tore his head off. Screams went up from the crowd attending the Hebden Bridge Bird Shit Festival as one-by-one they were torn to shreds by a vengeful Emu. Nobody was spared, not even Keith Harris and Orville, who had all their arms, legs, heads, plastic beaks, green polyester wings, big nappies and Art Garfunkel hairdos ripped off. It was a truly horrific sight (unless you’re Cuddles the Monkey, who famously hated that duck).

As he lay dying (Emu had already buggered off at this point), Orville turned his bloody face to what remained of Keith Harris. “If only I could fly, Keith,” he whispered. “I could have flown up there and fixed the aerial and Emu wouldn’t have got all upset about Rod Hull dying because he wouldn’t of died.”

“Well actually he would have still got angry,” an eyeless, headless Keith Harris replied, “because if you remember, Orville, Emu wasn’t bothered about Rod Hull dying. He was pissed off that everybody came outside to watch the aerial being repaired instead of judging his bird shit. We would have all been killed by that fucking maniac puppet bird regardless of who went up on the roof, I’m afraid.”

And with that, Keith Harris died. As did Orville.

THE END